TMI, Twifans, T.M.I.

My regularly scheduled bit of snarky blogging was totally sideswiped yesterday when I realized that yes, there apparently a line to my fandom.

That line represents the line of ridiculousness beyond which not even I can go. Not physically, and NOT EVEN IN MY HEAD, YOU SICK BUNCH OF BASTARDS.

Ahem.

I don't know if it was just the week I've had, starting with my friend telling me about hitting the strip club on Monday for the first time in 8 years and how much he didn't enjoy it (Monday at a strip club, man, you knew it would suck), followed by a rousing round of TMI all around from a girlfriend in a new relationship and my sister (I love you, but you're married and I don't want to hear about it), but I was totally unprepared for the level of depravity my fellow Twi-lovers have spawned.

Because apparently there is a market for this thing robust enough to warrant its manufacture.

SHOCKING.

Okay, maybe not THAT shocking. The lot of us are Cullen-crazy and Rob-Obsessed, no denying.

But THIS is taking things too far. And it just tripped my lid, because I can't even IMAGINE it.

And, sadly, I tried, too. It made me feel dirty all night, and not the good kind of dirty either.

It's so bad I can't even blog about it openly without shuddering. Thank God the Twitarded ladies had the balls to break it down for me.

It's glittery, cold, and . . . .ech, just read about here.